u/Dagiz

Kjori, still adjusting to the weight of his new helm, entered the council chambers. Seeing that Thora was engaged in conversation, he waited patiently for her to finish. When she was done, she motioned for him to step forward.

“Kjori, that helm... must you wear it at all times?”

He chuckled softly. “No, Thora, not at all times—but for today and tonight, yes.”

She cocked her head to the side. “Is it happening?”

“Yes, we will begin the ritual tonight. Eltrigg has been scouring the ancient scrolls and finally found what he needed. It is a remarkably complex ritual, and we now understand why it was so rarely performed. From what we gather, it is extraordinarily taxing on those involved.”

“Who volunteered for this?”

“Two brothers. Twins, in fact—Torstein and Halvar.”

Thora looked up at him and let out a low whistle. “Those are two of our finest warriors. Are we certain this is the best course of action?”

“Thora, I honestly cannot give you a simple yes or no. These rituals have not taken place in centuries—neither Eltrigg nor I truly know if it will work. This is deep, primal, elemental magic. It isn’t the clean arcane craft you hear about in storybooks; this is a force of raw nature. In some ways, it mirrors the necromancy practiced in other realms, yet we are not raising the dead. We are merging the spirits of man and beast. Only the strongest will survive it.”

“When do we begin?”

“At sunset. We have located the sacred site and will make our way there following tonight's feast.”

**********
At the ritual site, the twin brothers were instructed to strip off their shirts. Siggrid observed them closely and gave a solemn nod.

“Good. I will explain what is to come. You see my markings? These were etched using ink mixed with the acid of a green wyrm. It was agonizing. Every Beastmaster undergoes these markings, but what you are about to endure will be far worse. Prepare yourselves.”

With that, she turned to retrieve a bone needle alongside a vial containing a mixture of animal blood, green wyrm acid, and ground herbs. One of the Earth Speakers approached and handed a separate vial to each brother.

“Drink,” was all he said.

As they swallowed the draught, the rest of the circle entered: Kjori alongside Thora, Sigurd, and Ignis. Eltrigg nodded to another Earth Speaker in attendance, who immediately began beating a heavy, rhythmic pulse on a large drum.

Standing at the top of the ritual site, Eltrigg began chanting in the ancient tongue. As his voice echoed off the stone, Siggrid signaled both men to lay down on the stone slabs before them, chaining their wrists and legs firmly in place.

“For your protection,” she whispered.

The potion began to take hold, washing a strange, euphoric calm over the twins. As they slipped deep into a trance, a second drum joined the cadence, and the chanting shifted in tone. Siggrid began her own low incantation as she dipped her bone needle into the acid-laced blood ink—a blend prepared earlier from four distinct beasts and dragon acid.

She drove the needle deep into their flesh, burning runes into their skin so the blood mixture would bind forever. Neither man uttered a sound; the draught rendered them entirely numb to the burning acid.

Once the last rune was inscribed, Siggrid took her place in the circle. The drumbeats and chanting stopped instantly, cutting through the cavern like a blade.

Standing high above, Eltrigg invoked the ancient magics, and the drums roared back to life. It was nearing midnight, nearly three hours since the ritual had begun.

Eltrigg raised his dragon staff high, dancing in erratic, powerful motions. A sudden shift tore through the air. A thick, ethereal green fog began to coalesce, and above the altar, the ghostly forms of animal spirits materialized—the elk, the bear, the cougar, the wolf, and the wyrm. Before the onlookers' eyes, the spirits began to swirl wildly, condensing into a green mist that descended directly onto the two men strapped to the slabs.

The reason for the heavy chains became brutally clear. Torstein and Halvar’s bodies began to writhe and twist at impossible, agonizing angles. Their backs arched violently into the air as the magic reshaped them, held down only by the iron links. Low, guttural growls rumbled from their throats.

The drums accelerated, matching the frantic tempo of Eltrigg’s high-pitched chanting. The onlookers fell into a trancelike state of their own, chanting the ancient words without realizing it, their bodies swaying in sympathetic rhythm to the pounding drums.

Then, all at once, the green fog dissipated. The spirits vanished into the void. The ambient torchlight settled back to normal, and a profound silence signaled the end of the ritual.

Siggrid rushed down to unfasten the chains, gasping as she reached them. The brothers—once men—were no longer ordinary mortals. Eltrigg descended the stone steps and helped both warriors to their feet. Turning to Thora, he proclaimed with reverence:

“My Jarlkona... the Berserkin are born.”

Thora stepped down onto the dais to look upon the brothers. Their physical forms were permanently transformed; where two men had once lain, two imposing beastmen now stood.

Both knelt before her, placing their hands over their chests in absolute devotion.

“Jarlkona, we are yours to command. We serve none other than you.”

Thora turned to Eltrigg and Siggrid, her eyes wide. “How many more can undergo this process?”

Siggrid stepped forward. “Jarlkona, the ancient laws are strict: only fifteen Berserkin may exist at any one time. Any more, and the beast within them will dominate their spirit. Like wild animals in a crowded den, they will turn on one another and tear the clan apart.”

“So be it,” Thora declared, motioning for both men to stand. She met their feral eyes with pride. “You are the first of the fifteen. You shall be my personal guard... and my elite vanguard.”

Part 1

The events depicted take place a few weeks prior.

(OOC: I ordinally meant to split this up but time got away from me)

The moment Kjori touched the shield, violent visions flashed through his mind: spirits of beasts walking alongside men, dragons bonding with humans, and figures wielding primal elemental magic to shape the earth. Above it all hovered eyes—the many watching eyes of Woodan.

With a gasp, Kjori dropped the shield. It hit the stone with a sharp clatter, loud enough to rouse his companions.

Eltrigg rushed toward the noise, finding the old sage trembling on the ground, his eyes rolled back, chanting in an unknown tongue.

“Kjori! Kjori, can you hear me? Snap out of it!” Eltrigg yelled, seizing the old man by the shoulders and shaking him.

Kjori’s eyes snapped focus. His face was ashen, and his voice quavered as he looked up. “Eltrigg… I have seen it. I have seen what lies ahead for us.”

“What are you talking about, old man?”

“This place—these ruins—hold an ancient power,” Kjori breathed, rising unsteadily. “A power that can save our people. We must inform Thora immediately. She needs to move the clan here.”

Seeing Kjori shaken in a way he never had before, Eltrigg turned to a few members of the company. “Return to the Jarlkona. Tell her to begin moving our people here at once. Be swift.”

The guards nodded and immediately set to work packing their gear. The ride back to Thora would take a week at a normal pace, but travelling light with minimal rest, they could make it in three to four days.

Vane stepped forward, adjusting his armor. “I will stay behind with you two. As capable as you both are with the world's magics, you’ll need a blade to guard your backs.”

Kjori started to object, but stopped himself and offered a respectful nod. “I appreciate it, Vane. While I do not believe anything here means harm to us, the company is welcome.”

Before descending the stairs into the lower ruins, Kjori turned. “Vane, take up the shield.”

Vane hesitated, remembering Kjori's violent trance.

Sensing his doubt, Kjori added, “Fear not. The magic that granted me the vision has done its work. It will not burden you.”

Vane grunted and cautiously lifted the shield. Though forged of heavy iron, it felt impossibly light in his grip—yet unmistakably dense and powerful.

As the trio began their descent, Kjori glanced at Eltrigg. “What do you know of the word Kaab? It was spoken in the vision.”

Eltrigg stopped dead in his tracks. “Where did you hear that word?”

“I saw it written,” Kjori explained. “Ancient Futhark runes flashed before my eyes—the same symbols from the keep’s oldest scrolls that we’ve never been able to decipher. I believe I can read them now.”

Eltrigg’s eyes widened. “It makes sense. Kaab is the true ancient magic—the original connection to the earth's essence. Legend says the Weavers of Kaab could shape stone and command flora at will. It wasn't arcane manipulation; it was purely elemental.” He paused, looking down at his hands. “What we practice today is a watered-down version of it. The true words and rituals were lost millennia ago. It was said that to know Kaab was to know the world—where man and beast could become one.”

Vane, second only to Siggrid as a Beast Master, leaned in. “Is it like our bond with animals?”

“Deeper,” Eltrigg replied. “With Kaab, man and beast become a single entity. If we can recover those words of power, Kjori...” He trailed off, the weight of the possibility hanging in the air.

Kjori smiled quietly as they reached the threshold of the deep ruins. “Then let us go find them.”

Finding an entrance into the ruins, the three men pushed as hard as they could.   The ancient seal released a rush of heavy, stale air. After adjusting to the draft, Eltrigg struck a torch and led the way down a long flight of stone stairs into a corridor carved directly from the bedrock.

“How deep do you reckon we are?” Eltrigg asked, his voice echoing.

“Deep enough that the air should be freezing,” Kjori noted.

Oddly, the temperature grew warmer the deeper they ventured, contrary to any natural cave system. With no visible heat source, the warmth felt strangely intentional.

The corridor finally opened into a cavernous chamber. All three men froze. Floating in the pitch darkness ahead were dozens of glowing, disembodied eyes.

Kjori caught Eltrigg’s arm. “My vision... I saw this exact chamber. This is no accident, Eltrigg. This is the place of power from the visions Thora, you, and I have been receiving. This is where we were meant to end up.”

“But what are they?” Eltrigg whispered.

As they watched, the light from the floating eyes intensified, illuminating the chamber walls. Carved into the stone was the ancient crest of the Wyrmgaard. Below it lay a doorway choked by thick webbing, guarded by a massive, slumbering spider. Scattered across the floor were countless manuscripts and leather-bound codices written in ancient Futhark.

Kjori stepped closer and the eyes disappeared.  In their stead, a soft light emanated from an ancient helm resting on a pedestal. It featured a central eye flanked by five stalks. The spectral eyes blinked in unison—an illusion, yet unnervingly lifelike. Behind the helm lay a second shield, an exact twin to the one Vane now carried.

An irresistible pull drew Kjori toward the helm.

At the same time, Eltrigg’s attention was captured by an object in the corner: an ancient wooden staff topped with a green stone dragon, resting atop a bed of unnaturally fresh leaves.

As if drawn by the same invisible thread, both men reached out. Kjori touched the helm just as Eltrigg gripped the staff.

Instantly, their minds were flooded with forgotten knowledge.

Kaab opened before Eltrigg’s mind's eye. The lost words of power, the precise somatic rituals, and the forgotten earth-harmonies of the Wyrmgaard filled his consciousness, showing him the real magic of the Wyrmgaard.

Kjori’s perception expanded outward, understanding Wyrmgaard's true place in the cosmos. The scrolls on the floor revealed themselves not just as histories, but as testaments to ancient gods.

Then, a singular, resounding voice echoed directly inside Kjori’s mind:

“They are coming. Prepare, or die.”

Kjori gasped, meeting Eltrigg’s gaze. The truth settled between them. The Night of Embers, the alliances, the strange pull to these ruins—every event had been a calculation leading to this moment.

Eltrigg nodded toward the web-covered doorway. “Come, Kjori. Let us explore our new home. There is much to learn.”

“Yes, there is,” Kjori agreed, glancing back at the helm. “Everyone believed Woodan had only one eye. But his eyes were everywhere—he saw all things. It is time we bring back the songs of old. Translating these manuscripts will take whatever years I have left, but I will preserve them to my last breath.”

Eltrigg raised his new staff, its stone dragon glowing faint green. “The songs of old will be sung once more. The Wyrmgaard will be reborn.”

OOC: 2 different actions, just didn't want to make two different posts

Trader Ship Moves to Ogunda

Following a very successful meeting with Joshua, the Wyrmgaard send a merchant family to set up shop at the trading post. On board are 10 barrels of whale oil to sell at a kiosk as was recommended. A family of four - Torik, his wife Vilma, and their two sons will be there to set up shop. (pics 1&2)

Navy Moves Out

Word has reached Thora of the attacks that are taking place on the continent of Rutland. Knowing that some might take retribution against the Wyrmgaard for what her allies are doing, she tasks that a portion of the Navy set sail and patrol the waters directly north of their home.

She watches from the battlements of the ruins that the Wyrmgaard are now calling home as the newest ship, a dreadnaught with 2 large ballista and 6 smaller ones sets sail for the first time. The forward ballista is designed to puncture the hull of any wooden ship and attached to the bolts are copper containers that contain whale oil in a congealed form that allows the smaller ones to light it with fire and set ships ablaze. The aft ballista is designed to fire bolts in the air or the sea to help either protect or attack. (pics 3-5).

With the new alliance firmly forged, Jarlkona Thora knew the Wyrmgaard could no longer remain where they were. They needed to move closer to the sea. Her current stronghold was built too close to the ruins of her childhood home—the ancestral hall that Cinderfang had reduced to ash so many winters ago. Change was no longer just a desire, but a strategic necessity. If the Wyrmgaard were to thrive, they required direct access to trade lanes, transforming the heart of her land into a thriving center for commerce, reinforced by absolute, impenetrable defenses.

For the past month, a recurring dream had haunted her sleep: three massive burial mounds rising out of the earth, followed by a dramatic rebirth beside the crashing waves of the sea. This vision mirrored a strange shift in the waking world. Kjori and the druid Eltrigg had sensed an unsettling pressure in the air—a heavy, primordial power that was different from ordinary arcane sorcery. It felt old, deep, and elemental. To the council, the omen was clear: rebirth demanded sacrifice, and the time to move was now.

Acting on the vision, Thora dispatched Kjori and Eltrigg, backed by a small group of elite guards, to seek out the landmark from her dreams. As the expedition traveled away from the mountain peaks, a strange pull guided their steps down into the sprawling, coastal basin of Valinvaga. The sensation grew stronger the deeper they ventured into the valley, drifting far from the familiar stone heights of Havarhal.

On the morning of the twentieth day, the mists parted to reveal the sight. In the distance stood three perfect hills, seamlessly aligned against the horizon exactly like the burial mounds from the Jarlkona’s dreams.

Upon seeing the hills, Eletrigg’s eyes rolled back into his head as he fell into a sudden trance, his body swaying violently to an unseen rhythm. He began to chant in a booming, ancient tongue that none of his companions could understand:

"Vindur, sól, fjöll, prír, Ginnungagap, Alu,"

He repeated the primordial incantation over and over, his feet moving automatically toward the trio of hills. By the time the rest of the party caught up with him, the trance had broken. Eltrigg returned to his normal self with no memory of the words he had spoken, yet he possessed an unshakeable certainty of where they needed to go.

Reaching the base of the hills, they discovered a sprawling network of ancient stone ruins, ideally situated where a wide river emptied directly into the open sea. Looking around, they found a pair of glowing dragon runes etched into the stoneworks. Seeing the carvings, the entire party knew without a doubt that they had found the place where Wyrmgaard would be reborn.

As the sun began to set and darkness began to creep and the temperatures began to drop (even though it was spring time, the weather would still turn to freezing this close to the sea) they ascended a set of stone stairs leading up the hill. With night fast approaching, they decided to set up camp beneath the shelter of what appeared to be a massive, ruined stone bridge.

Unable to sleep, Kjori eventually slipped out of his bedroll. He wandered through the quiet camp, staying just within eyesight of the night watch. A short distance away, a peculiar glyph drawn upon a crumbling wall caught his eye. As he drew closer, the drawing began to glow with a faint light.

Hesitating for only a heartbeat, Kjori reached out into the shadows and firmly pulled the artifact from the stone wall, realizing that it was not a mere drawing, but a beautifully forged, ancient shield.

Jarlkona Thora, ruler of Wyrmgaard, has sent her trusted advisor Sigurd to Arathril to meet with Queen Helena, initiating discussions regarding their entrance into the Southern Alliance.

Along side a ship she sends one of the ouroboroi that help protect the Wyrmgaard's fleets and home.

u/Agreeable-Blood-6804

+++

In farther southern waters, the ships carrying Raganarr and Torvig arrive at Ogunda Trade Hub to look for supplies that will be needed to assist build the new fortress for the Wyrmgaard. Upon arrival, as Torvig looks to see who is in charge. Not wanting to stick around all that longer seeing the skeletons, Ragnarr kicks over two chests with jewels and gold and yells out "We want to trade - here's what we got!" to the chagrin of Torvig.

u/JJKP_

Negotiations with the neighboring rulers had not gone the way she hoped. In an effort to establish relations with the other Viking lands, she had sent Ragnarr and Torvig to The Yaccad to secure trade.
Unfortunately, the raven they sent back brought bleak news: they hadn’t even managed to secure a meeting with the local leaders. The message ended with a note about rumors whispering of a recent rebellion in Verentyne. As she sat contemplating her next move, Sigurd and Kjori strode into the Great Hall to deliver their reports.
“Sigurd, you return,” she said. “What news of the tribunal?”
“The general was acquitted of regicide,” Sigurd replied, “but he was punished for his role in the slaughter of the villagers.”
“I see. And their reasoning?”
“In essence, the tribunal ruled that if he had the wits to kill the king, he should have had the wits to ignore the king’s orders to burn the houses.”
“Interesting.” She didn't quite follow the logic, but she supposed she didn’t have to. “Onto other matters. Kjori, what have you to say?”
Kjori straightened, pulling back his cowl. The gray in his beard betrayed his advanced years, but his eyes still sparked with youthful energy. “Jarlkona Thora. I know you have been exploring opportunities to move our people closer to the other tribes across the water. But I must tell you—I have begun to feel a hidden power here. I spoke with Eltrigg, and he agrees. There is something buried in this land. Something no Wyrmgaard in recent memory has explored or felt. To leave now would be a mistake.”
“You are not alone, Kjori,” Thora admitted. “I have felt it as well. It has cost me sleepless nights, almost as if Wodan himself is intervening. I have been thinking that it is time we build a proper fortress here.”
She turned back to Sigurd. “Send a raven to Ragnarr. Tell him to change course and sail for Ogunda—there is a trading post there that should have the extra supplies we need. On their way back, have them stop in Verentyne to seek trade relations with these new rulers.”
She stood, signaling the end of the audience. “I believe I have found a suitable place to build. We will convene a full council tomorrow to discuss it. That is all.”
Given their orders, both men bowed and withdrew. Kjori went to find Eltrigg to further unravel the mystery of the power they felt, while Sigurd hurried to the rookery to dispatch the ravens.

The Jarlkona has commanded that Ragnarr Salt-Beard take a few ships and sail to the Yaccad to set up possible trade with the Vikings there (OOC - we discussed doing some things before the ban). She tasks that Skorgarfast fly with them to offer aerial protection.

Hearing of what happened to fellow vikings across the sea, Thora looks at the Commander of the Serpentgaard, Ignis, and instructs him to use the distraction of the Anvard army moving away to send a force to take Bjorsland.

"Commander, we will not sit idly by as one kingdom wishes to declare that their rule of law is the way. I have heard from Sigurd and his ravens that this Anvardian whelp wishes to replace our laws with his own. I will not stand for it. Now I hear he is trading land and his own people like mere cattle. Send an armed force to take Bjorsland."

"As you command Jarlkona." Finally, Ignis thought, we get to see what we are made of.

"Tell Vane and Vandil to make ready and go with the force. Vane is to ride Skogarfast and have Vandil ride Cinder Hoof."

With those orders, Rutland would see the Wyrmgaard in action for the first time.

Attacking Force

60 Vikings with an assortment of shields and weapons.

10 Serpentgaard with crossbows, they are with the Dragon Defender Catapult. The Catapult launches rocks and also barrels of liquid whale blubber that is lit and explodes in a fiery "explosion" when it hits.

Vandil - a beastmaster riding his Ash-Strider, Cinder Hoof (an ancient beast - Indricotherium)

Vane sits atop Skogarfast, a green dragon.

1 Ice troll

Jarlkona Thora hearing of events transpiring that may affect the entirety of the realm sends a small diplomatic team to witness the events unfold.

Thora at that moment, understood with absolute clarity the terrifying cost of her family's arrogance. With the eastern doors blocked by falling, burning masonry, she turned her back on the fire and ran hard toward the western balcony, preparing to plunge blind into the freezing crevasse below.

The snowdrifts of the Havarhal wilderness did not offer comfort; they offered numbness. As she crawled away from the fiery blaze that was her home, she gazed at the giant dragon reducing her home to ash. Cinderfang stood in the center yelling out a triumphant yell as he burned those that once held him captive. 

Thora turned her gaze from the ghastly sight and headed into the icy wind and wilderness with only what she was wearing.  For two days after her plunge from the blazing western balcony of House Sólmúli, Thora moved like a winter ghost through the biting  winds. Her royal tunic was ruined, shredded by the fall and stained with soot. Beneath the coarse wool wrap she had salvaged, her skin was permanently mapped by raw, angry crimson blisters—a reminder of Cinderfang's white-hot rage.

She was nine years old, entirely stripped of her lineage, and carrying a truth her family had died ignoring: “You cannot shackle the sky”.

****
Kjori looked over the final writings from the scribes. It had been decided that the history of how the Wyrmgaard came to be needed to be written on parchment to preserve the legacy of their past. More importantly so that future generations would remember the lessons of the past.

“Good. Very good. Make sure to begin copying this to send out to the rest of the clans. The Jarlkona has more she wishes to have scribed. There will be more to come.”

As he turned away, he looked out the window from the keep tower. He looked to the sky and saw both of the ancient red dragons circling above. Commander Ignis sitting astride Cinderfang “What a story that would make.” He thought. He turned his gaze to the other wyrm, another giant red, Surstonn. Surstonn had arrived six weeks ago, fleeing from southern captives. While still weary of letting a human ride him, he was becoming more and more accepting of the Wyrmgaard ways. “The Jarlkona was wise in her decision to not bind these beasts with iron like her forefathers.”

With that last thought he turned from the windows and headed down to visit the ancient black and purple wyrm that rested below the tower.

"The chains have broken!" Torstein screamed through the black smoke, his silver pendant melting flat against his mail. "The red wyrm is unchained!"

Cinderfang roared—a cataclysmic, deafening sound that sent the bravest of men running. His eyes locked onto the family that had broken his spirit for a decade, and his chest began to glow with a terrifying, white-hot light.

Valthor drew his axe, but his boots were already sticking into the liquid stone. In the blinding, ash-choked panic, Torstein and Halvar bolted toward the eastern exits, entirely abandoning the throne they had spent the evening celebrating. 

Karen screamed, reaching blindly out through the roaring smoke toward her sons as the ceiling began to cave in.
Thora, her skin already blistering from the intense radiant heat, pushed herself up from the floor.

She didn't look for her father, her mother, or her brothers as they fled into the ruin of their short-lived triumph. She looked directly at the monster. And at only the age of nine, she stared into the eyes of an unchained ancient red dragon

It was not a standard tremor of the volcano, but a sharp, localized pure  force of fury that shattered the glass windowpanes and rattled the chains hanging from the ceiling. Beneath their boots, the deep, agonizing hum of the binding runes—the very foundation of their dynastic power—ceased entirely. The thunderous cheering of the grand hall dissolved into an absolute, terrifying silence.

Halvar dropped his dagger; it clattered uselessly against the stone. Valthor’s face drained of color as his hand instinctively dropped to the hilt of his broadaxe, shouting for the guards to re-ignite the dampening stones in the elevator shafts.

He never finished the command.
The center of the Grand Hall did not crack—it erupted. A colossal column of white-hot, magma-flame punched straight up through the heavy floorboards, instantly vaporizing the ironwood map table and turning the silver-bound maps of their conquered territories to floating black flakes before they could even hit the ceiling. A wave of blistering, toxic heat swept across the chamber, throwing Thora backward off her stool. Her blue mantle caught a stray spark as the air turned into an oven of pure sulfur and burning ozone, and the celebratory stones of the keep began to bleed liquid glass.

From the gaping chasm in the floor, a massive, asymmetric jaw rose, silhouetted against a localized storm of liquid crimson fire. One giant, soot-stained tooth jutted outward, dripping a volatile pre-combustion fluid that exploded into blinding sparks upon contact with the air. The victory banners hung to honor the feast caught flame, raining down sheets of fire upon the screaming nobles.

Ooc: messing with canva a bit and seeing if I can make something close to cut scenes from old school ff tactics.

The air inside the Great Hearth of House Sólmúli was suffocatingly heavy, bloated excitement of a historic victory. The grand palace of the Iron Jarls did not merely celebrate a successful hunt; they celebrated the total subjugation of the western valleys, a monumental feat that had culminated in the capturing of three juvenile green wyrms and the burning of the last independent lowland strongholds. The echoing vaults beneath the floorboards were stuffed with looted silver and gold and gems, and the hall above was thick with the rich aroma of roasted boar, heavy mead, and the triumphant, metallic sting of sulfur drifting up from the breeding pens. Massive stone pillars, freshly carved with the new glyphs of their latest conquest, supported a vaulted ceiling that shuddered under the weight of the high-born host roaring out on the exterior roosts.

At the center of the hall sat the Grand Map Table, a massive slab of ironwood bound in runic silver, where the architects of the subjugation plotted their absolute dominance over the remainder of the north.

Around the table, the family was draped in the spoils of the evening. Jarl Valthor, a mountain of a man clad in heavy, ringed mail and kirtles of bear-fur, slammed a heavy iron flagon onto the timber, his face flushed red with mead and arrogance as his eyes scanned the maps of the broken southern valleys. Beside him stood his wife, Lady Karen, her posture rigid and triumphant, her fingers adorned with fine silver bands looted from the valley seers as she quietly adjusted her fur-lined mantle, her sharp eyes scanning the cheering court. 

Their twin eighteen-year-old sons, Torstein and Halvar, leaned over the table. Torstein, built like a siege engine with calloused knuckles, idly touched the silver drake-pendant of an active rider around his neck, boasting of how his vanguard had flushed the clans from the canopy, while Halvar played with a dagger, a cruel smile mirroring his father’s as they laughed about the timber-wrights they had dragged back in chains.

Away from the heat of the main hearth, entirely detached from the roaring victory toasts, nine-year-old Thora sat on a low stool near the periphery of the room, wrapped tightly in a mantle of dyed blue wool. Small, sharp-eyed, and entirely quiet, her gaze was fixed not on the grand maps of conquest, but on the stone floor beneath her boots. She was listening. 

Beneath the surface, vibrating through the very bedrock of the mountain, the rhythmic hum of runic iron was pulsating. The Jarls believed the vibrations were steady, but Thora could feel a change in the cadence - something was wrong.

"The mountain doesn't like the coal," Thora said quietly, her voice cutting through her brothers' booming laughter. "It's spitting ash through the lower vents again. We burned too much to celebrate tonight."

Her brothers laughed louder, a dismissive, drunken sound that echoed off the stone arches, but Valthor only leveled a cold, heavy stare at his daughter. He told her she spent too much time listening to the stone, reminding her that on this night of greatest triumph, she was a daughter of Sólmúli—descended from the very smiths who forged the first links to drag the sky to its knees.

"We aren't commanding him, Papa," Thora insisted, lifting her steely eyes to meet his across the burning hearth. "We're just holding him down. The blue light on his collar... it’s flickering. I saw it when the keepers brought the sulfur down."

Torstein sneered, waving a hand at the guards, boasting that Cinderfang had been pinned in darkness for ten winters and that the smoke of their victory would only make his blood boil hotter for the forge. Lady Karen stepped forward, her voice a smooth, icy warning as she told Thora to hold her tongue and respect the absolute strength that had secured their empire this night.

But the words died in her mother's throat.

Deep within the rugged northern territories lies the realm of the Wyrmgaard, a land forged by cold steel, ancient pacts, and the roar of dragons. The seat of power is the Citadel of Havarhal, a fortress city, , where smoke rises from eternal hearths and the great war-council convenes. Ruling over both Havarhal and Valinvaga from her throne of stone is Thora, Jarlkona of the Wyrmgaard.

Havarhal stands as a formidable mountain fortress-city where sheer military defense meets a bustling waterfront lifestyle, beautifully divided into a towering stone citadel and a lively lower town below. High above the valley floor rises the dark gray stone keep, a massive vertical watchtower outfitted with reinforced dragon perches and a heavy iron gate to safeguard the mountain's deepest cavern networks. Directly beneath these towering cliffs, a tightly knit network of snow-dusted, dark-timbered buildings—including the Council Hall—clings to the rocky shoreline, connected by wooden boardwalks over freezing blue waters. This lower settlement is flanked by ancient sacred runestones and active dragon lookouts, where massive red and green wyrms stand guard at the water's edge, creating an impenetrable sanctuary where the people of Wyrmgaard live in perfect rhythm with their winged protectors.

Thora is a ruler of fierce intelligence and unyielding resolve. She did not merely inherit her title; she earned it by bonding with the rarest of beasts and uniting the fractured clans of the north under the banner of the Wyrm. Unlike the rulers of old who demanded submission through force, Thora governs with a philosophy rooted in deep, instinctual connection. She relentlessly pushes her trainers and council members to bond directly with their animals rather than trying to subjugate them, believing that true power comes from partnership, not captivity.

The fire in the great hearth of Havarhal always casts long, dancing shadows across the stone floor, but Jarlkona Thora’s gaze often drifts to the massive iron links piled in the corner of the grand hall. They are rusted, heavy, and deliberately broken—a permanent testament to a dark past she vowed never to repeat.

The Iron Chains of Bondage

Long before she was Jarlkona, Thora was a daughter of the old northern clans. In those days, leadership was measured strictly by dominance, and the relationship between humans and dragons was forged entirely in blood and agony. The old chieftains—including her own family—believed that a wyrm could only be broken, never trusted. They forged massive, heavy iron chains, quenched in glacial water and etched with cruel, binding runes, using them to drag the great beasts from the sky and pin them to the earth until their spirits snapped.

But a chained beast only waits for the links to rust. Thora was only a young girl when the inevitable reckoning came in the high peaks above what is now Havarhal. A captive Red Wyrm, driven mad by the tight, biting iron collar around its throat, managed to snap a weakened link during a midnight storm. The fury of the fire-born dragon was absolute. It did not just flee; it turned its blinding rage upon the clan that had enslaved it. In a single night of ash and screaming wind, Thora watched her family’s hall consume itself in a torrent of unstoppable red flame. She survived only by throwing herself into a freezing mountain crevasse, watching the smoke rise against the stars, knowing her family had built their own pyre.

Left with nothing but the smoldering ruins of the old world, Thora refused to rebuild the cages. She saw the truth clearly: to rule the sky, one could not bind it. She sought another way. For years, she lived as an exile in the harsh, white valleys of Valinvaga, studying the wild beasts. She learned that a creature’s loyalty earned through respect, patience, and shared trial was infinitely stronger than any metal forge could produce. When she finally returned to Havarhal to claim the throne, she brought no chains. Instead, she brought an offering of peace to Frost-Shudder, the legendary White Wyrm of the highest peaks. Where others had brought iron nets, Thora brought her bare hands and an unbreakable will. When the massive beast finally lowered its head and allowed her to touch its frozen scales, the true realm of Wyrmgaard was born.

The Council of Havarhal

"Jarlkona?" Kjori’s voice broke the silence, snapping Thora from the heavy weight of her memories.

Thora cleared her throat, blinking away the phantom scent of ash. "Yes, Kjori. I agree with all of you. We still do not know the nature of these newcomers. Tell me, Sigurd, are you able to slip eyes into the surrounding realms so that we may know what threats march toward our borders?"

Emerging from the deep shadows of his cloak, Sigurd the Silent, Master of the Hidden Ravens, gave a sharp nod to his sovereign.

"There are some lands where the soil is more hostile than others, making direct contact difficult," Sigurd murmured, his voice low and raspy. "But my weavers have kept tight tabs on them since their foreign sails first broke the horizon. Might I suggest we officially open trade routes with these neighbors? It is far easier to gather whispers when our merchants are invited past their city gates."

Thora offered him an approving nod. Sigurd leaned back into the shadows, his fingers already scratching notes onto a piece of parchment—reminders to meet with certain trusted merchant captains down in the sprawling harbor town once the council adjourned.

Turning her attention back to the great map table, Thora looked toward the Keepers of the Beasts.

"Gunnar," she said, her voice commanding the room. "I believe that you, Siggrid, and Ignis must seek the cooperation of the creatures across these lands. Should the worst come to pass, we will need their strength to defend our home and our way of life."

"It shall be done, Jarlkona," Gunnar replied, adjusting his dark cloak. "Siggrid has already spent the last few moons tracking the migration patterns in the jagged peaks and deep valleys surrounding Havarhal."

"He speaks the truth, Jarlkona," Siggrid Iron-Vein interjected, stepping forward. The intricate runic tattoos on her arms caught the firelight. "Vargr has been invaluable in tracking the wild-kin. Few beasts care to challenge him outright. He is a magnificent creature, and I am deeply grateful you trusted me to train him."

Siggrid cast a fond glance toward the dark corner of the hall, where the massive, reddish brown form of the three-headed hound rested against the timber pillars.

Thora tracked her gaze, a small smirk playing on her lips. "Magnificent indeed, Siggrid. Though I must say, he slobbers a bit too much for my liking."

A light chuckle rippled through the tense room before the Jarlkona grew serious once more. "Is there anything else that requires our immediate attention? Ignis, are the Drekar prepared for flight?"

"They are, Jarlkona," Commander Ignis answered, tapping his ornate red dragon helmet. "Cinderfang and Skógarfast have been maintaining a vigilant watch over the village below. I have also received word that another great red wyrm may be flying north to join our host, though time will tell. Frost-Shudder remains nestled high in the frozen peaks, but the sky will bleed frost the moment you call for him. As for Rökkr, he is currently making his way to the spires where Kjori and the sages keep their vigil."

Ignis leaned over the map, his eyes flashing with fierce pride. "I promise you, Jarlkona, no enemy fleet will cross into our harbor without paying a hefty price. A very hefty price."

He smiled, glancing across the table at Siggrid and Elenara. The Beastmaster and the Druid both stifled a laugh, which Thora met with a knowing, indulgent look.

"Jarlkona," Siggrid added softly, looking toward the antlered seeress beside her. "Elenara’s songs have been a tremendous boon. She has helped us commune with the ancient leviathans of the deep waters. We are fortunate that the tides themselves will aid us should we need them."

"Superb, Siggrid. Truly," Thora said, standing up from her stone throne. The entire council rose with her, their attention locked on their leader.

"If there is nothing else, we are adjourned. You all know your tasks. Keep me informed of any disruptions along the borders." Thora placed both hands firmly on the edge of the map table, her gaze sweeping over her inner circle.

"Remember: iron breaks under enough heat. But a bond forged in mutual respect can withstand the fiercest winter. We do not chain the strength of Wyrmgaard. We become it."

The Havarhal Council (The "Players")
Thora the Broken-Chain, Jarlkona Sovereign and Sky-Breaker of the Wyrmgaard
Ruling from her high stone throne in Havarhal, Thora is the absolute authority of Wyrmgaard. Unlike the tyrants of old who ruled through fear and iron shackles, her power stems from an iron will and unmatched mutual respect with her beasts. She bears the title Sky-Breaker because she shattered the tradition of chaining dragons, proving to the realm that a beast bound by honor is infinitely more powerful than one bound by steel.

Kjori the Far-Seer, High-Thulr of the Eye
Kjori is the revered keeper of law, lore, and sacred speech. Kjori serves as the council’s primary sage and magician. Clutching his staff topped with the Eye of the Void, he reads the shifting currents of fate, deciphers ancient runic omens, and ensures that political alliances or incoming dark sorceries are seen long before they cross into Wyrmgaard territory.

Elenara Earth-Speake, High Völva of the World-Tree
As a Völva—a seeress who wielded the deep, natural magic of seidr—Elenara is the spiritual anchor of the council. Donning her ceremonial antler headgear, she speaks for the rocks, trees, waters, clouds and native beasts of the north. It is her sacred duty to commune with the air, water and land, ensuring that the intense heat of the city’s dragon-rearing fires stays in perfect balance with the spirits of the mountain.

The Beserkin, The Jarlkona's Shield-Walls
Bearing a title evolved from the legendary Berserkers, these heavily armed guards are the ultimate line of defense for the throne. Bound to Thora by blood-oaths, they do not just protect her; they embody her wrath. In battle, they enter a terrifying, unyielding trance, wielding their massive weapons as an impenetrable human wall that no enemy blade can breach.

Gunnar the Shadow-Stalker, Lord of the Grey Hunt
Gunnar commands the wilderness, serving as the realm’s premier scout and asymmetric tactician. He maps the lethal, vertical crags of Havarhal and tracks encroaching threats through blinding blizzards. When the Jarlkona requires a physical threat to be hunted down and quietly neutralized in the dark pine forests of the land, it is the Shadow-Stalkers’s bow and cloak that vanish into the treeline and hunt down their prey with the help of their faithful hounds. 

Sigurd the Silent, Master of the Hidden Ravens
In honor of Odin’s information-gathering birds, Sigurd is the Raven-Tongue of the court. Sitting quietly at the edge of the map table, he rules the invisible battlefield of whispers, politics, and secrets. His network of spies, the Whisper-Weavers, intercepts enemy raven-scrolls from distant kingdoms, ensuring that the Jarlkona always knows a rival clan's intentions before their shields are even strapped to their arms.

Siggrid Iron-Vein, Dýratami of the Wild-Kin
Siggrid is the undisputed master of all non-draconic life in the realm. Her skin is heavily tattooed with runes mixed from ash and apex-predator blood. Whether training ferocious mountain war-bears for the shield-wall or breeding sharp-scented hunting hounds for the valleys, she commands absolute, instinctual obedience through raw presence and respect.

Commander Ignis, First Rider of the Drekar
Ignis commands the Serpentgaard, the elite aerial military wing known in the Norse tradition as the Drekar. Wearing his ceremonial red dragon-head helmet, he is the master tactician of the skies, responsible for training both the elite riders and the great beasts themselves. Aloft his massive fire-wyrm Cinderfang, Ignis ensures the skies above Havarhal remain an absolute death trap for invaders.

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Thus the first of the Wyrmgaard are introduced to the world. There are more, many more that have come under the banner of the Wyrmgaard. In time, the Realm of Rutland will learn of them all.

Seeing the hostilities occurring not to far from its own lands the Wyrmgaard send an expeditionary force to set up a keep and fortifications and expand the Jarlkona's own territory.